


And Then

by pukajen



Category: Castle
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, The Limey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wracking her brain, Beckett tries to figure out what happened, what moment changed Castle from the one person in her life she thought would never walk away, to the man who wanted 'fun and uncomplicated'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then

**Author's Note:**

> Written for castleland over on lj for Challenge 14: ONE EPISODE "Make things from one episode of Castle".
> 
> So many thanks to Soundingsea for doing the quick beta this weekend. Especially since I'm way over my first estimated word count.

Drinks had been a bad idea. Maybe if there'd been more time, if Colin's flight had been scheduled to depart the next day rather than the red eye back to London that night, drinks and the smile that promised so much more would have been a great idea.

Maybe it wouldn't have been, but at least she wouldn't currently be sitting at home, by herself, at 9:19pm. Her mood in no way mellowed by several glasses of bourbon bought at a midtown bar – in fact, Beckett now finds herself vacillating between white-hot rage and tears of heartbreak – she's contemplating getting completely hammered, alone, in her apartment. 

At least if she were still with Colin, she wouldn't be getting drunk alone. Nor, Beckett promises herself, would she be thinking about Castle and what he and the blonde are most assuredly doing right now.

One night stands aren't really her thing anymore, but almost anything to sublimate the pain of Castle, of what feels like the harshest of betrayals, would be welcome.

She isn't on tomorrow, so Beckett knows she doesn't have to worry about bringing a hangover to work with her. That would lead to awkward questions she'd just as soon not have to answer.

Still, crawling into a bottle because of Castle seems like giving in. Like a weakness she doesn't want to succumb to.

Why is it the most important men in her life leave? Beckett knows that she's work. God knows, she can't understand herself some of the time, knows that she has a bad habit of shutting people out, of putting up a wall between herself and everyone else, but really, it isn't like they were all without their own myriad of issues. 

From the first guy she'd really been serious about, Kurt – the bastard who technically hadn't left her as it turned out she'd been 'the other woman' and she'd left him – to Royce, Castle. Even her dad and Montgomery fall into the category of guys who'd left, albeit in very different ways. 

A memory surfaces of that awful night when Kurt's high school sweetheart – whom he was apparently engaged to – showed up to surprise him at his dorm with home baked cookies and a smile. 

Katie was just happy that her top had been within easy reach. After the yelling, and the tears, the accusations, she'd calmly told Kurt to go fuck himself, told the still sobbing girl – she never did get her name – that he wasn't worth her tears or loyalty, and calmly walked through the cool night back to her own dorm.

Only once back in her own dorm room with the door locked did Katie break down and for the first time in too long, called her mother just to hear her voice.

Never one to take anything lying down, her mother had told her to go to the all night cafe on campus, get a decaf mocha with whip, add the rum she knew Katie kept in her dorm room, and call her back. While Katie was following her mother's instructions, her mother had apparently been doing the exact same thing, so that by the time Katie returned to her dorm and called her mother back, Johanna was sitting in the living room back in New York at nearly two in the morning getting ready to listen to whatever Katie had to say and soothe away the hurt.

God, she misses her mom. There's no one besides Lanie she can really talk to about Castle. And Lanie's advice, while filled with truths, is hard to take right now.

What Beckett really wants is Castle to talk to her, to tell her what she did wrong and how she can fix it. There has to be something, anything, she can do to make the cold, hard facade disappear so that she can get her partner, her friend, back.

For one moment, one brief moment when she'd stepped out wearing that dress, the connection between them – the one she pretended wasn't there for so long, then ignored with all her will – flickered to life. The look in Castle's eyes was incredible, like a slow thawing brought on by intensely burning heat. 

She always felt incredibly awkward walking through the bullpen a dress that, while elegant, revealed a lot of skin, especially in front of the guys – not that she hadn't worn far, far less when she'd worked Vice, but those days are long behind her – but it was worth it to see Castle looking at her. For that brief second, she thought he was going to step up, to say something; then Ryan spoke and Colin walked up to her, and the vacant look was back in Castle's eyes.

Wracking her brain, Beckett tries to figure out what happened, what moment changed Castle from the one person in her life she thought would never walk away, to the man who wanted 'fun and uncomplicated'. 

Maybe she really did wait too long. Maybe the man she thought she knew is the facade and the playboy is the real thing. 

How did everything get so fucked up?

Needing to be out of her apartment and feeling more alone than she has in ages, Beckett wants to see the one person she knows won't give her advice or ask the hard questions. Before she leaves, Beckett fills a silver flask with some Maker's Mark 46; then, pulling on a black leather coat, she heads out into the night. 

 

# # #

Scotch seemed like such a good idea at the time; the bottle of Macallan 1953 single malt was something Castle had bought a year ago, but never opened. It might have warmed his stomach, but it's done little to temper the anger that has been steadily building over the last week.

That Beckett has been lying to him for months...

God, maybe for years, makes him want to break everything within reach. She might not have intentionally been lying to him, at least he doesn't think so, but there were smiles, looks, hand touches that he'd taken to mean someday. The whole conversation on the swings when, like the fool that he is, he'd come to heel when she'd shown just the slightest bit of, of, of... 

Of what, he's not sure. Not interest, not any return of his feelings. Why the hell she wants him around, Castle can't even begin to speculate upon. He helps on cases; no one can question that. He provides some comic relief, but really, he thinks he annoys her in equal parts.

So why does she tug him back every time she sends him away?

Just as importantly, how pathetic does it make him that he returns every time?

Two hours after abruptly ending his date – the writing was on the wall, he wasn't going to sleep with Jacinda, and from the way her hand was creeping up his thigh he knew he couldn't really put her off any longer – Castle walked through his front door, never more relieved that both his mother and daughter were already in bed. Without stopping to take off his coat, he went straight to his office and cracked open the bottle of scotch. 

It seemed like the thing to do at the time. A good way to if not erase, then maybe mellow the gut-churning mix of anger and heartbreak that threatened to bring him to his knees or put his fist through the nearest wall. 

Now, however, he regrets wasting such a good vintage on what basically amounts to a pity party of one. He's by far not the first man to ever have his heart broken. Hell, it's not even the first time his heart has been broken. Though it has been years, and somehow Kyra's departure didn't leave nearly the wreckage that Beckett's is going to. 

Already has.

He might be the one distancing himself, but she left a while ago. Maybe she was never even really there. More a mirage of what he wanted to see.

Lifting his glass, Castle takes a large gulp and finishes off the contents. 

Well, at least he hadn't opened the 1949 bottle.

Deciding he is already too full of regrets to add more, Castle pulls the top off and pours himself another three fingers. His new plan – as trying to be fun and uncomplicated clearly hadn't worked- is to get blindingly drunk. While this new plan won't solve his problems any better, at least he hopes to forget them for a while, and then, if all goes according to biology, be so hung over he won't care for a little while longer. 

When his phone signals a received text, Castle almost ignores it. Only the thought that it might be something important – he just assumed both Alexis and his mother were here, but what if they'd gone out? Well, Alexis is almost definitely in bed, as it is a school night after all, but who could tell with his mother – on a sigh he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

For several long seconds, he just stares at the display. Never before has Lanie texted him. In fact, Castle isn't sure if she's ever called him. It's not that they're not friendly, it's not as if they don't talk outside of work, it's just that their interactions have always revolved around other people. 

With near-morbid dread at what the text will say, Castle reads her words.

'Do you know where Beckett is?'

Panic seizes him, gut-deep and primal. Because, for all he's told himself again and again that he's over her, that he can turn love off, that she's been lying to him for nearly a year, he still loves her. Still needs her. Still can feel her blood on his hands as her life ebbed out on a sunny day last May.

He's not sure how much time has passed, but he does notice, with a dim sort of apathy, that he's dropped the glass and while it hasn't shattered – if this were one of his books, it would have shattered to add dramatic emphasis to the tone of the scene – the amber liquid has formed a puddle on the dark wood floor, the edge seeping into the white carpet under his desk. 

Another message from Lanie comes through.

'Check latitudes.'

Hands far from steady, Castle pulls up the app that he and most of the 12th put on their phones after the tiger incident. Beckett often has her location turned off unless she's working, but he checks anyway.

Why the hell is Beckett in Green-Wood Cemetery at 10:13 at night?

A million possibilities tangle in his brain and he's paralyzed by not knowing what course of action to take.

Then it hits him; Green-Wood Cemetery is where her mother is buried. 

A fog of confusion, worry, anger, and love swirls around him, but his body knows what to do and Castle leaves his loft before realizing that this is the new, new plan.

# # #

He pays the cabbie a little extra, okay a lot extra, but the trip to Brooklyn is accomplished in record time. When he looks at the gates, Castle realizes he has a new problem; he has no idea how she got in.

Probably climbed the fence and while he's all for some bending of the rules, Beckett usually isn't and he's not sure exactly what state of mind she's going to be in when he finds her.

But find her he will. They'll have this out, despite the most inappropriate of locations, because fatefully enough it was a cemetery that put them on this path to implosion a little under a year ago, so it's only right that they'd be in a cemetery to end it. 

# # #

“Remember how you always hated all of my boyfriends?” Beckett wearily asks her mother's headstone. “How you always said that I was selling myself short?”

After that, she sits in the silent night, her legs cold, getting damp as the ground is still wet from the rain earlier that day, but Beckett doesn't care. Over the last half hour or so, she has come to the bleak conclusion that whatever is broken between Castle and herself is likely unfixable. 

Cupping her hands more firmly around the drink she knows is going to be cold and bitter, Beckett nonetheless swigs down the last dredges of a mocha liberally laced with bourbon. 

“You're right, I was.” God, how she wishes that her mother had lived long enough to hear her utter the words 'you're right'. The boys she'd dated in high school had been fun, and quite possibly could have made something of their lives, but back then, they'd been more interested in drinking, smoking pot, getting laid, cutting school, and general mischief. 

At the time of her mother's death, they'd just gotten beyond Beckett's admittedly rocky teenage years and were forging a relationship as adults.

What a joke; Katie had been as far away from being an adult as the moon was from the sun. That said, she'd done an awful lot of growing up in an incredibly compressed amount of time.

And in such a way that fucked her up for life. 

In the wake of her mother's murder, Katie had morphed into Kate, then Beckett, and each incarnation had been just that much more self-sufficient, that much more guarded, that much more focused on finding her mother's killer.

“I think you would have liked Castle,” she says after a while. “Not that it really matters one way or the other anymore.”

Leaning back, Beckett rests against the smooth side of another tombstone, a marker of the end of someone's beloved husband and father, according to the lettering on the other side. 

A long, slow sigh passes through her lips and the wind carries the sound as it blows through the trees and markers that make up this field of the lost. Overhead the clouds appear to be breaking up and Beckett wonders what phase the moon will be in tonight. 

“Kate, what are you doing here?”

The words startle her so badly that she bangs her head against the unforgiving granite of Jacob Williams' tombstone. Despite that, she manages to jump to her feet, her hand going instinctively for her weapon before she can process that it's Castle standing like a specter before her. 

“Whoa!” Castle cries softly, hands raised in the universal sign of peace and asking for calm and cessation of violence. 

“I could have shot you!” Beckett exclaims, heart beating as if she'd just chased down a crazed suspect hopped up on meth. The normally smooth action of holstering her gun is hampered by the fine tremors in her hands.

Fuck, she was a half second away from pulling the trigger. On Castle. She almost shot Castle. Bowing her head, Beckett tries to suppress the images that play in graphic detail through her mind: the way a burnt hole would have appeared in his blood-red shirt, the stain, small at first, then ever growing on the shirt eerily similar in color, the look of shock and incomprehension on his face, the small stagger, then his form crumpling to the ground.

The grim irony – not without some sort of macabre humor – of her nearly shooting, killing, Castle in a cemetery is not lost on her. But god, nothing could possibly have been worse. Absolutely nothing. Unable to stop herself, Beckett takes two steps towards him, and while he doesn't back away, his expression doesn't look all that welcoming. 

She nearly killed him and all she wants to do is assure herself on the most basic level that he's whole, that he won't be collapsing to the ground in some sort of awful, dark mirror of what happened last May. But the look on Castle's face has gone from shock and not a little worry, to a resigned blankness.

Trying to gather the shredded threads of her control, Beckett runs both hands through her hair. 

“What are you doing here, Castle?” Beckett asks, never having felt more alone in his company before. Wrapping her arms around herself, Beckett suddenly feels every minute she sat out in the damp and cold. 

“I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

“It's my mother's grave. Do I really need a reason to visit it?”

“When you break into, well, anywhere, I wonder what exactly is going on.”

“Why do you care?” She snaps out the question before she can stop herself and sees one more barrier snap into place between them. 

“You know, Kate, I'm not sure any more.” 

It's another arrow to her bleeding heart and Beckett can't decide if she wants to stay and have this out or run as far and as fast as she can, just to get away from the pain.

But she's run plenty of times before and it's probably exactly what led them here. 

“Castle.” Her voice breaks on his name and it takes all she has not to let tears form and run trails down her face. “Rick, what's wrong?” 

# # #

Her wall seems to have fallen and it takes a huge force of will to keep his in place; maybe it stays solid because he's used parts of hers to fortify his own. 

They stand in silence and Castle wonders if the atmosphere has ever been so tense between them, so laden with subtext and hurt. He stares at Beckett, searching her face, wondering again what's brought her here, wondering how he could have possibly fooled himself for so long. How he put his own spin on every 'meaningful' conversation, every look that lasted a bit too long, every time she ducked her head to hide a smile. 

Every time she used his first name to truly get his attention. 

It's the final thought that has him finding his resolve – which has been crumbling the longer he looks at her, sees how much she's hurting, how uncertain and sad she is – to push this confrontation that will only end up breaking them forever.

“I want to know why you lied.” There. Now it's out, it's between them, it's something that can't be taken back. No matter how much either of them want to; it's not like there's a lot of space in that room where they shove things labeled 'Not To Talk About Ever'. 

From the look of confusion on her face, Castle knows that Beckett has no idea what he's talking about. Funny; something that has changed, shattered his whole world, and she can't even guess at what it is. 

“What did I do?” She takes a step towards him and from the way her right hand reaches out, before coming back to wrap tightly around her middle, Castle thinks she wants to touch him in some way.

“You lied to me,” he states bleakly. “You've been lying to me for nearly a year now.”

He sees it then, can see the realization wash across her features in the way her eyes widen, her mouth slackens, even the sharp indrawn breath. There's nothing she can say to take it back, no way to change the lie of silence and denial compounded over months, to fix the bond of trust that has been snapped between them.

“I. You.” She takes a deep breath and her eyes search his face as dawning realization replaces the confused hurt that has been lingering, poorly masked, for the last couple of weeks. 

“Yes. I and you. Both players in this little drama that has been unfolding for the better part of couple of weeks.” In frustration, Castle runs his right hand through his hair, a harsh breath exploding out of his lungs. “Hell, not only the last two weeks, the last four years. Only, the script I thought we were going off of? It turns out to be a tragedy, not the romantic comedy I was using.”

“Rick, please. I'm so sorry.” She looks at him, imploring. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“See, that's the thing people say right after they've wreaked havoc in somebody's life.”

“It's because they are sorry.” She steps up to him, so close that they're almost touching. “I'm sorry.” A tear spills from her right eye and trails down her cheek. “So sorry.”

“That doesn't change what you did, Kate. And sorry doesn't solve anything.” And then, he's prodded by the thing that's made him who he is, that drive to find out what and why and how and who, to get answers to all the small, odd, hard, random questions. “Why? If you don't feel the same, if there wasn't even a chance, why didn't you just tell me?” His words start soft and deliberate, but quickly build until they're tumbling over each other, bitterness giving them sharp edges that he does nothing to blunt. “Why have me still in your life? Was I some sort of security blanket? Castle, he's funny and easy to be around, not someone I want to be with long-term, but, for now, he's good enough.” Castle gives a laugh that is filled with self-mocking. “Plus, I guess that all the free coffee is a nice perk.” 

“What?! No! Castle, no.” There's anger in her face now, anger and hurt and not a little sorrow and horror at his words, but he just doesn't care. 

Castle wants this done. Wants the pain to stop – though he doesn't think the loss of her will ever go away – but being here, ripping at each other is destroying him.

No more, it's too painful; his words are hurting him just as much as they are hurting her and, despite everything, he knows in the end he doesn't want to cause her any more pain. 

Well, probably doesn't; it's hard to see past the hurt tearing inside him at the moment.

“Look, you know what? Forget it. Let's just forget it and stop before...” But he's not sure what else to say. Stop before they get hurt? Stop before there's no way to salvage their friendship? Stop before the last four years get tainted with bitter recriminations? 

It's too late for all of that now. 

# # #

Beckett stands in shock, unable to believe what Castle is saying. Unable to believe that he believes it. How can he know her so well, yet not at all?

He gives a little shake of his head and straightens his shoulders. He's going to walk away; she knows the signs, knows his tells even if she used to pretend she didn't.

No more pretending. No more lies.

“Stay where you are,” she commands, low and firm, tension vibrating in every muscle. If this is going to be the end of them – which frankly is almost too much for her to even contemplate – then she wants the record set straight. “You've had your say; now it's time for mine.” 

“I think you had your say when you told a suspect that you remembered every part of your shooting.”

So that was it, Kate thought. She'd been searching her admittedly scrambled brains for how he'd found out. And, while she could see why he was so hurt, so angry, she wasn't sure why he hadn't just come to her. 

Then again, the list of things they don't ever talk about is quite extensive. 

“That wasn't how I wanted you to find out.”

“No. I can't imagine it was.” His laugh is rueful and sharp. “Then again, after three months of silence, then the next seven or so of pretending you didn't remember, I don't know what would be.”

Beckett wants to pull her hair out in frustration; this is not how she thought this would go. Not how she hoped things would be between them when she finally told him that she heard, that she remembered.

“Look. I fucked up. And I'm sorry beyond words. I didn't know how to tell you. For the first couple of months, I couldn't even think of that day without pain shooting through my chest.” Taking a breath, Beckett tries to find the words that might have a hope in hell of fixing what's damaged between them, but comes up empty.

“Why?” he finally asks and it breaks her heart how he blanks his face while she can see him bracing himself as if for a blow.

“Because I was scared. I am scared,” she corrects herself. “I'm still so broken in so many ways.” The words are hard to get out, but she knows the ramifications of not saying them will be a thousand times worse. “And, once I started down the path of feigning ignorance, I wasn't sure how to take it back. No matter what happened, I was going to hurt you and I didn't know how to minimize the fallout.”

“What scares you?” While Castle is no less braced, the blank facade is starting to crack and she can see the tension around his mouth, the way he searches her face as if seeking out the truths she can't put into words.

“You're it for me,” Beckett admits baldly; no more couching glimmers of hopes between ambiguous words. She knows that if she wants them to have a chance – and now that she's openly fighting for that ephemeral promise of what could be – she has to say them. Plus, she's finding that saying some of the things she's kept so carefully hidden isn't as quite as hard as she thought it would be. 

“I'm pretty much a sure thing,” he says with self-deprecation. “Why would you be scared?” There's confusion, shock, and not a little hurt woven together in his tone, and she wishes this whole thing had unfolded differently. Now that she's said it, admitted that he's her one and done, Beckett knows she'll always regret that they started in death and lies and pain, because that smile of his – the soft one that lights his eyes, fills his face with wonder, shows the laugh lines – is missing from this moment. 

On the other hand, the words have been spoken, and Castle doesn't appear to be in such a hurry to leave.

Now, if she can fight her way through the rest of the quagmire between them, then maybe there'll be enough pieces left of their relationship to use as a foundation for something new.

“But life isn't,” she says slowly, trying to make sure she has her words in order. “And if you die, if you step in front of a bullet meant for me, I would never, ever get over that.” Nightmares still haunt her of Castle being just a little quicker, of him noticing the flash a split second earlier, of the bullet hitting him, killing him. 

“So, instead, you chose to back away?” he asks dully, though it's almost more of a statement. The walls are coming up again and Beckett is frantic not to lose the ground she's gained.

“No. Castle, no.” More than anything she wants to touch him, to stroke his face, to take his hand, anything to anchor him to her as she searches for the right words. “I needed to heal; physically at first, then emotionally. When I went back to therapy...” She pauses, still not entirely comfortable bringing up her sessions with Doctor Burke. “When I went back to therapy, I knew that I needed to change something fundamental about the way I deal with the world. With the people I let into my sphere, yet keep them at arm's length. The way I deal with you.”

“I didn't need you to change,” Castle says, his body swaying towards hers, his eyes soft and searching.

Relief is a physical wave that washes through her at both his tone and look. Her words are making a difference; they're getting through. Hopefully, it's enough to prevent their complete implosion. 

“No, but I needed to change if I ever wanted to be able to be with you.” She's still not sure she's changed enough, that she's whole enough to begin something forever, but it seems that fate has forced her hand. “More, I needed to change if I ever wanted to be able to get on with my life. To try and move beyond what had happened to me.” Beckett levels a long look at him, hoping he can understand all of her meanings. “Everything that had happened to me.”

“Why couldn't you just tell me all that?

“It's hard, Castle. So incredibly hard, to talk about this with anyone. But, I thought it would be a million times harder to talk about it with you.”

“Am I that hard to talk to?” he asks, an incredulous tone to his voice. “Because three books, well four, would seem to indicate I'm pretty good at listening to what you say.”

“I didn't want you to see how weak I was or see how broken I was. Am,” she corrects, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. “I didn't want you to think I wasn't extraordinary.” 

“Kate.” Her name, that's all he says, but it's low and gentle and filled with so many conflicting emotions that she can't start to pull them apart.

# # # 

The anger isn't magically gone now that he's starting to understand her reasoning. Nor is the hurt, and Castle suspects both will linger, especially the hurt, but he's loved her for far longer than he's been angry at her. And, at his core, he wants to do nothing more than help and protect those he loves. 

“You are one of the most confusing and wonderful people I've ever met and I know I don't tell you, show you, enough how much you mean to me.” Her tongue darts out and she licks her lips.

In his chest, Castle's heart stutters at her words, and he wars with himself to stay strong, rigidly holding himself away from her, from gathering her in his arms. It seems tonight is more than the end he thought, so much more, and he's not sure how to react. The walls he's put up these last couple of weeks were hard-built, but their initial construction too hasty to withstand what's happening tonight.

“After the shooting,” Beckett continues, breaking into his thoughts. “I thought it would be easier just to ignore everything. Everyone. If I didn't have to talk to anyone, then it didn't have to be real – Montgomery's betrayal, then his death, the fact that we didn't have any leads on either my mom's case, or my shooting.” She pauses again, a different emotion he can't identify smoothing over some of sorrow and frustration. “You.” 

“Me?” Castle prompts when she once again pauses; his mind caught on that one word, idea, and wanting desperately to know more.

A smile, just the slightest curve of her lips, flits across Becket's mouth before she ducks her head. “What you said was both the best and worst part of that day.” 

Beckett reaches out to him then, but stops before her hand comes in contact with his. Unable to prevent himself, Castle slowly mirrors her movements, except he doesn't stop until he's got her hand in his. 

It's as if his touch gives her permission and Beckett takes his hand in both of hers, bringing to rest on the center of her chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that has lusted for her since the first moment he saw her is slyly whispering how close he is to her beasts – a slide of his hand a couple of inches left or right and he could cup either of her breasts. However, that part is drowned out by the fact that even though he's never seen it, Castle knows his palm rests directly over the scar left by a sniper's bullet. 

The memory of her blood on his hands is enough to momentarily silence any lustful thoughts.

“What do you want?” he finally asks, voice rough with a myriad of emotion. 

“You,” she tells him, repeating the pronoun from earlier that had his mind spinning. One syllable that is so simple yet filled with so much meaning. Castle is scared that he's once again reading more into her words, well, word, than she means. 

“How?” Tonight, he wants to get clear meanings and definitions so that there's no way he starts to build a future based on words that he's imbued with more meaning than their speaker might have intended.

“In any way I can have you.” Letting go of his hand, Beckett cups his face, her thumbs on his chin, fingers splaying over his cheeks. “I know I hurt you and I know it's going to take some time to get over what I did, but please...” Beckett moistens her lips as her fingers caress his face with near-reverence. “Please.”

It's both the easiest and hardest choice he's ever had to make; there's a lot they still need to discuss and Castle suddenly realizes that he might have a secret that will tear them apart just as hers nearly did. Now, however, is not the time. Not over her mother's grave, not while they're still on such unstable ground. 

Brushing aside the strands of hair that rest against her cheek, Castle nods. “Yes,” he tells her. “Any way. All ways.”

“Thank you.” Her words are a whisper as she rises up and lightly brushes her lips over his. His hands drop to her hips and he holds her in place as they gently exchange a slow second kiss that's more about affirmation than arousal. 

When they break apart, each searching the other's face to make sure this, the kiss, the sudden new shift in their paradigm of their relationship is okay with both of them. The smile that is gracing her lips is filled with a knowing certainty that both settles and arouses him.

The kiss was all too brief, but her taste is familiar and he wants nothing more to gather her in his arms and dive back in deeper. Memories flare of another kiss, ones that had taken weeks to suppress, and it's an effort for him not to wrap his arms around her and just forget the last two weeks. The last year. 

“I promise to do everything possible to not ever shut you out again,” she says. Her eyes are steady and her breath puffs against his lips with every word. “But I need you to talk to me when something is wrong. I can't read your mind, and just turning into the jerk you were when we first met is not the way to handle the situation.” She smiles to soften her words, but her eyes stay serious. “And I will do my best not to run when I think you're getting too close, pushing too hard.”

“Let me know when you want me to back off, Kate, and I'll try my best not to crowd you.”

“I like it when you crowd me,” she tells him as if it's her most deeply held secret, and it might just be.

“Want to come back to my place and I can crowd you a whole lot more?” He doesn't really think she will, but it's cold out and she's pale and he can feel fine tremors starting to shake her. As much as he wants to stay here all night, be with her, hold her, Castle doesn't want her getting sick. 

“Pretty confident in the power of your kissing,” Beckett jokes, but her eyes are shining in a way that he has missed. Maybe in a way he has never really seen before. 

“Pretty confident in my charm and ruggedly handsome good looks,” he counters, trying to commit that exact smile to memory.

“You keep telling yourself that, Castle.” Beckett takes a step back, her right hand coming to his left, her fingers lacing with his. Looking over her shoulder, Beckett's eyes go to her mother's gravestone. “She liked your books, you know.”

That floors him. He knows that Beckett had been a fan before they'd met, but this is something new and fascinating. Something he's sure she would never have told him before. Even at their closest moments. 

“I'm honored,” he says her, having to push the words through his throat tight with emotions. 

“Well, she wasn't perfect,” Beckett tells him with a mischievous smile. 

“No, but she had fantastic taste.” It's on the tip of his tongue to add “and as for you, you taste fantastic”, but for once he bites back the innuendo.

From the way she rolls her eyes at him, Castle figures Beckett has a pretty good idea what he wants to say.

“Let's go home,” Beckett says as she tugs his hand and they walk towards the ConEd substation on Twenty-Third Street; it's the closest uninhabited stretch to where her mother's grave is. Silently, Castle smugly congratulates himself, it's where he hopped the fence earlier. 

“Share a cab?” Castle asks.

“I thought we were,” she responds, looking knowingly up at him through her lashes. 

Stunned, he trips and nearly sprawls ignominiously on the ground.

Castle, a man known for his charm, seen on page six for years with different gorgeous and sophisticated women, trips over his own feet and the only thing that keeps him from landing in a pile at her feet is Beckett's quick reaction. Smooth, he thinks with self-deprecation.

“Huh?” Is all he can get out. When he threw out that invitation, Castle didn't really expect her take him up on it. Nor, if he is really honest, is he ready to just slide into bed with her as if nothing happened. They both need time to process. 

“And to think, you actually make your living with words.” Beckett shakes her head in bemusement.

“Kate, I—”

“Put aside whatever thoughts are tangling your tongue.” She stops and slides in front of him, all coyness gone from her face. “I thought I'd lost you and there was a hole inside me that felt like it would never go away.”

Wanting to comfort both of them, Castle gently strokes her face before sliding his hands around her back and pulling her to his chest. “I know.” It was the same for him. 

Beckett's arms wrap around his hips until her hands lock together at the small of his back. Her movements are slow, though not in trepidation, he thinks, but more as if she's memorizing every movement, storing it away for later examination. 

“I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if all of this was some sort of incredibly lucid dream.”

He completely understands that sentiment. God knows, he's awakened from plenty of dreams to float in the twilight between consciousness and sleep reaching for her, a smile on his lips, only to find the place next to him in bed empty and cold. 

“Think you'll be able to stop yourself from being overcome by my manly pheromones?” he asked, agreeing that neither of them would be sleeping alone tonight.

With a snort, Beckett nods her head against his chest. “I've managed so far.”

“Isn't that the truth.” His words are meant to be a joke, but they ring flat and hollow in the night.

Beckett pulls back, the laughter completely gone from her face. With a look of sadness mixed with determination, she leans up and kisses him again. This time it isn't so innocent, isn't so gentle. Her mouth opens against his, her tongue darting out and asking for admittance. 

On a low moan, Castle parts his lips and welcomes her tongue into his mouth. She takes her time exploring him, learning the shape and feel of him, thoroughly investigating what makes his breath stutter – running her tongue over the roof of his mouth – and what makes him clutch her to him – nipping his bottom lip sharply. 

Far from idle, Castle strokes his hand along the side of her throat, thrilling in the feel of her speeding pulse as he turns the tables and just as thoroughly makes notes of her reactions to him, the way she arches against him when he sucks on her tongue, the soft mew of pleasure when he skims his nails at the base of her skull. 

He thinks, when the time comes, that they'll be lucky if they make it to a flat surface before tearing each other's clothes off.

When he breaks the kiss, they're both panting. Her eyes are glazed, and her hands clutch the lapels of his leather jacket. 

“Home?” Beckett asks, the word holding a hit of tentativeness to it.

As much as he wishes this were a fairytale – that the kisses they shared would fix everything – Castle knows just how many issues they have left to work out. 

“Home,” he agrees, once again taking her hand in his. 

He boosts her over the black iron fence, though she hardly needs help, before scrambling over himself.

“I can't believe we didn't get caught,” he says as they make their way towards Fourth Avenue to find a cab. 

“I'm sure you would have had a story prepared to get us out of trouble.”

“I would have just let you take the lead and flash your badge.”

“It's not a get out of jail free card,” she tells him sternly, but he can hear the laughter around the edges of her words. 

“Maybe I just want to see you in handcuffs.”

“That can be arranged.”

Again, he trips over nothing as his very fertile imagination supplies him with a plethora of scenarios. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to go to a cemetery again – barring a tragedy – and not get hard. 

He wonders if at some point in the not too distant future he'll be able to convince her to try out some the fantasies currently flourishing in his mind.

“You know, Castle, I don't think I've ever seen you have this much trouble walking. Maybe you should go see the doctor find out if you have an inner ear infection or an imbalance of some sort.”

“No, I think I'm getting my balance back just fine.” He grins at her then, happy to have the banter back. That more than anything settles his worry and soothes over the ragged edges of the pain. 

Grinning at each other as they walk past empty businesses and homes with curtains drawn against the night, Castle feels a sense of rightness settle over him. This is something he's wanted for longer than he can really say. The idea of someone like Kate Beckett – strong, fun, smart, gorgeous, a woman who gets him – had been hovering around his consciousness in the months before he'd even met her. While it might have taken a bit to figure out how Beckett fit into his life, the dream of her had rooted firmly in his psyche. 

The reality – both the pain and joy – is so much more, almost too much for him to be able to fully process. A goofy smile splits his face and he can't do anything to suppress it. 

“Thank you,” she says softly as they turn onto Fourth Avenue.

“For what?”

“For listening. For being you.” She places a quick kiss on the underside of his jaw. “For forgiving me and letting me back in.”

“In the end, I don't think I could have stayed mad. Once I had time to really think, I hope that I would have come to you or at least parted from you without anger.”

“Remember, if there is ever again something that I do that makes you that angry, that hurt, talk to me.” He can see the determination and anguish on her face. “I don't ever want to live through the last two weeks again.”

“Promise. Same goes.”

“Same goes,” she assures him. 

There isn't that much traffic this late at night, but the streets aren't deserted either. Castle wonders if it'll be faster to call his car service or wait for a cab to drive by. Or maybe take the subway as the stop is right there. 

“You going to be okay with me spending the night?” Beckett asks, head pivoting back and forth looking for a cab.

Castle laughs outright then and it startles him. Less than an hour ago, Castle didn't think he would ever laugh with her again. 

“I don't think that it's going to be a problem.”

“Together?” she asks, squeezing his fingers between her own as she hails a cab. It pulls over instantly, her super power.

“Always.”

As he slides along the back seat next to Beckett, Castle hopes it's a promise he can keep.


End file.
